Breakfast in Stilettos
Liz Kingswood
Seattle, WA
Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.Camelpress.com
www.lizkingswood.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Liz Kingswood and Sabrina Sun
Breakfast in Stilettos
Copyright © 2012 by Liz Kingswood
ISBN: 978-1-60381-878-0 (Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-879-7 (eBook)
LOC Control Number: tk
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Produced in the United States of America
For my mother, Carole, for a lifetime of love and support.
You and me against the world, eh?
The practice of putting women on pedestals began to die out when it was discovered that they could give orders better from there.
—Betty Grable
Prologue
Frank Trager folded a thick slice of turkey around a double-stuff Oreo and then shoved the swaddled cookie complètement into his mouth. With a muffled crunch, he conferred a black-speckled smile in my direction before puffing out a small, dark cloud of crumbs onto the picnic blanket.
He laughed. “You should see yourself!”
My stomach lurched. “That’s disgusting.” There was a good reason why Frank Trager was my ex-boyfriend. I hated the way he ate.
“Food all ends up in the same place anyway.” He shrugged and chased the concoction down with a swig of his Tabasco-infused beer. “Besides, segregation was outlawed in the ’50s. Admit it, Em, you’re just too chicken to try something new.”
“You know, in French, the phrase tu débandes, their version of ‘are you chicken,’ means the same as ‘have you lost your erection?’ Being penis-free, it doesn’t apply to me.”
I bit into my plain old turkey on wheat and awaited his riposte. Frank was a walking repository of facts, a true terror at Trivial Pursuit. In college, he would read entire history textbooks in one sitting. For pleasure. But what he did with those facts was another story. He’d combine them the way he did his food with equally unnerving results.
“Ah, you and your leetle French. La femme le manger?” He dipped a sweet gherkin into the salsa, and leaned forward to offer it to me.
I swatted his arm, sending a spray of chunky red sauce onto his 501s.
Undaunted, he double-dipped his pickle in the salsa and sucked the concoction into his mouth, licking his fingers in noisy satisfaction. “Fantastique.”
“You do that again and I’m leaving.” He had, after all, invited me to this picnic. And, in typical style, he had scanned his fridge for whatever passed as food and scooped it into his backpack. Voilà. Picnic. At least the bread wasn’t green.
I turned away from his next magic trick and instead watched the boats as they passed by. Today was the official Opening Day of boating season. The air was nippy, but not unusually so for early May. Overhead, the sky was the gray-blue haze that so often graces Seattle—not sunny, not rainy, but looking dressed and ready for either.
We had managed to commandeer our favorite place, a small floating dock on Lake Washington right next to the Montlake Cut, where all manner of spectator watercraft were anchored side-by-side. Red, midlife-crisis speedboats next to old-money yachts next to home-built fishing dinghies. The scheduled rowing regatta was already well underway.
I scanned the picnic array and decided the red corn chips looked safe. I grabbed a few and nibbled on one while watching him check out the boats. I was trying to remember why I had broken up with him. His awful eating habits, maybe. It sure wasn’t because of his appearance. Every gorgeous gay boy I knew lusted after his Colin Farrell-good-looks. And there was the peculiar way his mind worked. He was as comfortable reading Joyce’s Ulysses as watching Jackass: The Movie. Like the boats aligned in front of us, everything in his mind sat side-by-side without concern for category or class distinction. I never knew what would happen next.
I missed his surprises—the little notes, the flowers, the backrubs. But then, that same tendency toward mystery drove me crazy. All the times he’d disappear without calling. Or wouldn’t share his feelings—preferring to clam up or resort to jokes. Sometimes I just needed him to be serious, and that would typically lead to an argument. I hated conflict.
I sighed. “You know, today would have been our anniversary, or whatever you call it when people stick together, sans wedding rings. You know, if we hadn’t broken up.”
He stopped his teasing and scooted over to lean against me, still staring out at the boats. “Well, we should get some credit for showing up.” His breath, warm on my cheek, smelled of sweet vinegar.
“Yeah, maybe.” I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable at the familiar thrill of his touch.
He rested his head against mine.
I felt a tug of regret. How did you know when a relationship was done? Why did I still get a tingle when he touched me? Was I not over him? If only I could read his mind.
“You look deep in thought, Ms. Royce.” Frank nudged me. “Imagining me naked, I suppose?”
I nudged him away. “No. In fact, I was thinking of your brain, not your penis.”
“Rats. That always was our problem, wasn’t it? Confusing one head for the other.”
“Ha. Ha.” Yes, here it was. Frank’s finesse returns. I heard the next rowers’ race announced. “Just be quiet and eat your disgusting mélangé.”
He was silent for a little while as the race started. It was a women’s eight, with four shells making their way through the cut to the cheers of all the folks lined along on shore in the moored boats. There was real beauty in the synchronicity of the rowers—that likeness of mind and body that made rowing seem so effortless.
I always imagined a successful relationship would look like that. I had tried rowing and finally quit because it was just too damned hard. The deceptive look of ease was an absolute charade. Relationships, rowing, and writing. I was good at one of them, anyway.
As the rowers crossed the finish line, Frank leaned toward me again. “Do you miss me then?”
Of course I did, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to have this conversation. “Which head is asking?”
“Well, that would be the bigger one.” He was smirking.
“That doesn’t really answer my question, does it?”
He edged closer. “Well aren’t you full of compliments today.” He smiled.
I pushed him back, feeling exasperated. “You read that article I wrote on brain scans, right? The one where they finally found where the penis is represented in the male brain.”
Leaning back on his palms, he stretched out his legs in front of him. “I did read that one. Something about putting guys in an MRI and brushing various body parts to record brain stimulation.”
I nodded. “They found it somewhere between the areas for toes and the abdomen.”
“Well, that would explain the prevalence of food and foot fetishes. But what’s your point? Are you just avoiding my question? Or is this that thing where you have to lecture me before we have sex? Because I’m OK with that.”
My next thought was usurped by his comment. Did I really do that? I knew Frank had asked me out today because he wanted something. Sex, yes, and maybe more. And I had agreed because I wanted somethi
ng too. More, yes, and maybe sex. But I was avoiding his overtures. Maybe I was chicken. Tu débandes, Emily?
Luckily the start of the next race, the men’s eight, saved me from having to answer right away.
Frank and I had only been split up for, what, a month? Yet I thought about him every day, but always with that sense that something was missing between us. And yes, I wanted to have sex, but that’s not a good reason to get back with someone. Besides, I didn’t want to wake up in the morning to the sight or smell of Top Ramen with a couple of eggs dropped in for good measure. Or to have to sit by while his buddies get drunk on home-grown microbrews, flick bottle caps at the cat, and puke up day-glow Cheetos in the street as they leave. Or experience that inevitable tipping point when my need to see inside Frank becomes a blustery Wizard of Oz display from him. “Don’t you dare look behind that curtain!” Who was most afraid of what lay behind the disguise, him or me?
The race ended just as the leading team’s bowman crabbed his oar too deep into the water, causing the handle to slam into his chest and knock him unceremoniously out of the boat. The thud and splash made both Frank and me jump up to get a better view.
“That looked painful.” Frank took the opportunity to snake his arm around my waist as we stood there. “Reminds me of when you dumped me.” He patted his chest with his free hand. “Right here. Ouch.”
“Oh stop. I doubt you even noticed.” I hip-bumped him and he pulled me tighter.
“That’s not true. It did hurt, Em. More than you could know.” His trusty smile had vanished and for a moment I honestly believed that he had missed me. Was this a peek at the Frank I so desperately wanted to exist?
I swiveled in his arms and looked at him, enjoying the remembered warmth and contour of his body. We stood eye to eye; he was just a hair taller. “Mister Trager, I’d kiss you if I thought you were really serious.”
He laughed. “Would you kiss me even if I wasn’t?”
Well. Maybe I was a sucker for kissing him—for believing he would finally spill his secrets and tell me that he really loved me, needed me, and couldn’t live without me. But instead we had a happy couple of weeks and then broke up. Again. To make matters worse, we became serial splitters. We made up, fought, and then broke up so often that people no longer wanted to hear about it—not my mother, my boss, my best friend … no one.
So imagine everyone’s relief when Frank finally broke up with me. For good.
Chapter 1: Kenner Assigns the Story
According to the Ontario Science Center, scientists have now discovered which smells turn us on sexually. For men it’s a combination of pumpkin pie and lavender. For women, it’s a combination of cucumber and licorice-flavored Good & Plenty candies.
As I scribbled the reference onto a pink sticky note and slapped it on the edge of my Mac screen, I made a mental note to buy a variety of cucumbers for a little scratch and sniff test later on. Then I forced my attention back to the article at hand—the one with the looming deadline.
As the Lifestyle Editor for The Seattle Sun Times, it was my task to write about the strange and unusual. My monitor was haloed with a patchwork of brightly colored sticky notes, each containing a peculiar news bits that I’d found surfing. All fodder for future articles.
Today’s article, due in exactly forty-seven minutes, was about a group of Japanese researchers developing a technology that allowed the human body to be used as a data transfer device. “Imagine being able to transfer music from the MP3 player in your pocket through your skin to your headphones without any wires.”
Bizarre images kept surfacing in my overactive imagination. Nefarious thugs exchanging black market pornography through quick, slimy handshakes. Computer viruses transferred by sex workers in dingy hotel rooms.
But no. This had to be an upbeat article about the promises of pop technology. Nothing dark. I stuck to the perky straight and narrow that kept food on my table.
Re-reading the article for the sixth time, I could see no errors that jumped out at me—no obvious typos, anyway. It read as though it should appear in the pop section of the Seattle Sun Times. It was as good as I was going to make it, at least until I received the invariable (and not unworthy edits) that the Chief Editor would certainly offer up.
So I sucked in the customary final breath as I clicked “Send” with a passing thought that someday, maybe, I could hand in my assignments with a simple, “Hey boss, pull my finger.”
I sat for a moment, allowing myself that feeling of contentment for a job well done. I liked my job. I got paid to write about all sorts of silly things, received invitations to attend strange and unusual events, and thoroughly liked my boss. Granted, more money would be nice. Oh, and a view of something nicer than the four gray cloth-covered half-walls that surrounded my workspace.
I looked out of my cubicle into the office. The room was a sea of cubes with a few glass-walled offices on the perimeter—one of them the quiet sanctuary of my boss, the Arts and Entertainment Editor. Phones were ringing, low-toned interviews were going on here and there, and the ever-present tippity-tap of the keyboard drummed along as my fellow co-workers began to return from lunch.
I wasn’t much for socializing at work. Though I would make an exception for free food Fridays and the periodic birthday huzzah. I wasn’t exactly a loner, but I liked my privacy at work. One person at a time was great. You could get to know them—have in-depth conversations. The more people who were added, the shallower the conversations became. I was best at deep-sea dishing.
I turned my attention back to the computer monitor to contemplate the list of other articles I could pursue. I nearly jumped out of my chair when someone tapped the top of my cubicle as he strode by. A perky voice announced, “Good Afternoon, Emily.” Jason, the Food Editor and my cube neighbor to the north, had returned from lunch.
“Hey, Jason.” I gave a short over-the-cubical-wall wave to the older, oh-so-gay man with a penchant for exotic condiments and celebrity chefs, or some combination of the two.
His chair creaked as he sat and then wheeled up to his computer. “Anything strange and unusual since lunch?”
I ignored him. This wouldn’t be the first day he’d asked me that little gem of a question.
My desire to be productive suddenly waned, and I decided to do some exploration instead. I opened a new browser window. My adage is, “When all else fails, Google something.” There is always a potential “strange and unusual” lurking in the results returned.
I stared at the empty search field on Google’s home page for a moment and realized with mild annoyance that I was feeling a bit empty myself in the search department. The search for a new guy, that is.
I hadn’t been with anybody since my last dating calamité with Frank. The glorious Frank Trager. I felt as though he had infected me with some sort of virus that kept rebooting me whenever I met someone new, cycling through a never-ending RESTART sequence of Frank and Emily.
I was still angry with him for breaking up with me—four and a half months ago, but who’s counting. Luckily he didn’t work at the paper, but he was a fellow writer and I had a sick fascination for the latest story he was working on. His pieces were usually art or theater reviews with such blunt appraisals as “It was suckier than suck.” Appropriate for laud at the local alternative rag, the Seattle Zealot, but earning immediate dismissal at the Sun Times. His articles made me hate him a little less if I smiled, which I had done often when we first met. Frank could be funny.
An old compulsion prompted me to type in “Frank Trager” in the Google search box.
I ignored the standard “Search” button and instead clicked “I’m feeling lucky.” I liked to invoke the random Google god. There was something mystical about getting back precisely one return from all the possible links in the world.
I was a little surprised at the Web page this search returned. OK, shocked.
“Mistress Maven Whips Up Seattle, by Frank Trager.” I read the first few lines. He had in
terviewed a Dominatrix about her chosen profession. This was a far cry from suckier theater reviews. I read on.
Mistress Maven adjusted the leather restraints on a sinister throne-like chair, one with a pulley system overhead and a split seat allowing her to manipulate her patron’s thighs individually. “As a child I used to tie up my Barbie doll. Lucky for me, in my late teens, I realized there was a name for people like me.”
I stopped reading. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I’d tied up dolls as a kid. Didn’t everyone? At least I didn’t strap firecrackers to them and blow them apart like my cousin Ernie. But I wondered, suddenly, if that made me some kind of repressed Dominatrix.
I thought not.
I scanned the rest of the story, intrigued not only by the topic, but that Frank had written it. He wasn’t a prude. Quite the opposite. He would write about anything for money. But I hadn’t thought he knew anyone that interesting.
“Mistress Maven Whips Up Seattle?”
I jumped at Kenner’s deep voice.
“Jeez, you scared me.” I swiveled in my chair and looked up into the craggy face of my Senior Editor, Lawrence Wilhelm Kenner. Everyone called him Kenner. Not Lawrence or Larry, and definitely not L.W. With shoulders like an offensive lineman, he looked more like a former Seahawk than an Arts and Entertainment Editor. I called him The Kennerator. Sometimes even to his face. He’d respond with some appropriate passage from Shakespeare, such as “She is winding the watch of her wit; by and by it will strike!” Sometimes I actually got it.
Kenner towered over me, smelling of cinnamon Altoids, as he leaned in to read the article. “Researching a new story or just taking a trip through browser-land?”
I almost choked on a laugh. “Uh, that would be the latter. One of Frank’s stories.”
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